Remembering the Snowdrops of Ards today:
Snowdrops
On a
dank
dark
January
day
when the
rain
ceased
only
to give way
to freezing
fog,
I was
sudden stopped
by the
glint beneath
the bare branches
of their
greening.
There
they were,
the snowdrops,
quiet
at their
humble
devotions
in the
woodland glade.
Veiled in
purest white,
in bunches
they stood,
their heads
bowed
low
as though
whispering
together,
or perhaps
at
prayer.
I was
the happier
for seeing
them
then,
knowing that
only
on the
coldest
darkest
days
had they
begun
their journey,
ever
upwards
pushing
through the
steel soil
of
wintered woods
the earth
frost-forged
and hard,
so
to herald
a Spring
as yet
only
longed for.
Others
may sing
of the
sunshine
daffodils
and the
rich joy
of the
bluebells
yet
to come,
but
I will
choose
the
snowdrops
and
their
sacred
faith,
that after
every
Winter
there is
always
and
eventually,
a
Spring.
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